Tucked into an alley off the chaos of a Kathmandu street, I looked up and saw him—watching. Or maybe dreaming. A face painted in rich teal and blue, eyes glowing gold like he’s seen through the mess and noise of the city and come out the other side with wisdom—or maybe just exhaustion. It’s one of those murals that doesn’t shout. It waits. You either notice it, or you don’t.
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